


Black Irises

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Competent Merlin (Merlin), Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Dragonlords (Merlin), Dragons, Dragonspeak, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Family, Fluff and Humor, Fuck Prophecy, Gwen & Merlin Friendship (Merlin), Happy Ending, Magic Revealed, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: s02e13 The Last Dragonlord, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:08:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Merlin is the last Dragonlord. At least, the last he knows of. But the blood of the dragon doesn't die out so easily, and all Merlin truly needs is someone on his side to make a change.
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin (Merlin) & Original Character(s), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 129





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck BBC. That is all.

_"Ow,_ blessed Mother, son of a whore!"

A warm trickle starts down the side of his face. Grumbling, he kicks at the nearest exposed root of the tree, owner of the branch which had just swatted him across the face and nearly took his damn eye. He presses his thumb over the cut, wincing at the bright flare of pain. _“Þurhhæle.”_ The pain recedes to a dull ache.

As he continues between the trees, he scrubs at his cheek with his sleeve, hopefully removing all the blood. He could always wash it off at the next stream he finds, but if he does come across any late travellers, he’d hate to scare them off, walking about with blood all over.

There’s a soft warble from the vicinity of his waist.

"Will you please shut up? I am not travelling during the day, no matter how much you whinge.”

A wavering whistle.

“Yes, I _know_ I would’ve seen the branch if it was day, but it is night, so hush. Are we still going the right way? I would like to find him before I walk my feet down to bloody stumps, yes?”

There’s a suspicious silence, and he pauses, reaching down to pull back the edge of his coat. Pale light glows softly from a glass bottle tied to his belt with cord, brightening and dimming and shifting through a variety of soft colours. “Well? Something wrong?”

The silvery glow turns green, then ripples to pink.

“Oh, wow, you know what, when I told you to hush, _obviously_ I did not mean for you to stop giving me my heading. _Our_ heading, actually, and the sooner I get there, the sooner you are let out of the bottle. So which way?”

A flicker of yellow-green.

 _“Thank_ you.”

He releases his coat, obscuring the light from the bottle once more, leaving him to place his feet by what little moonglow filters between the leaves, cursing as he stumbles and snags upon the brambles and low limbs. “I hope you’ve done well for yourself because I expect a bath when I find you. A bath and a bed and a damn fine meal, too. And a new pair of boots because these are entirely ruined now that I have walked across the whole of bloody Alba—oh, damn it.” Reaching up blindly, he grasps for the top of the longbow strung over his shoulder, which has become ensnared on branch overhead, feeling about blindly with his fingertips until he feels where it is snagged and unhooks it. “I hope you’re good with a bow, too, because if I find out that I’ve dragged this thing along for nothing, I’ll turn it to kindling,” he mutters, knowing full well he won’t.

The undergrowth ahead rustles.

In an instant, he’s backed flush to a tree, pulling the dagger from his belt and holding the blade back against his forearm, edge angled outwards, pulse beating in his mouth. The rustling nears, louder now, and the brush is pushed aside, revealing a blunt muzzle and a broad furry face, hoary pelt oddly greyed in the moonglow. He lets out a huff of breath and lowers his arm, relieved. “Peace, sister,” he says in Parl, tucking the dagger back into his belt. “I mean no arm and am only passing through.”

The she-bear gives a low whuffling snort and lumbers on, snout to the ground in search of decent foraging.

He waits until she has passed him, then pushes away from the tree and starts forward again. “If only they were all so easy, eh? Of course, it would make sense that the only reasonable creatures here are the beasts. How much farther now? Oh, good.”

Passage becomes easier as the forest thins out, more moonlight able to reach the ground, in turn less uneven as there are fewer roots and fallen limbs. Once he gets to the top of the rise here, he’ll be better able to judge his heading. With any hope, his path will be across clear land from now on, because if he has to spend one more hour combing burrs from his clothes he’s going to—

He stops at the top of the rise and stares.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No." He reaches down and yanks at the cord until it comes free from his belt, holding it up to eye-level. The glow and clouded glass keep him from seeing the occupant clearly but there's a faint outline he can see if he squints. "We are not going in there. It's bad enough I am in this accursed kingdom at all, now, where is he? Be truthful."

Another warbling whistle, the light flickering from silvery-white to pink.

"I already said no. I'm not going in there. I'm _not."_

The glow from the bottle turns blue, then orange, then yellow.

"Don't you give me that."

Flickering yellow-green, then blue again.

Sighing, he lowers his arm and reties the cord to his belt. "Fine, fine, fine." Hands on his hips, he stares at the great, stark shape of the castle, stones rendered white in the moonlight, towers and spires speared towards the sky as if to impale the stars. "Oh… _fuck."_


	2. Found

His back hurts.

Merlin thinks he ought to be used to this by now. His everything always hurts.

He tries not to…breathe overmuch, as the muscles of his back give sharp spasms whenever he inhales too deeply, and shifts the basket he’s carrying to his other arm, wincing. Ow. That hurts, too. Feels like he wrenched something in his shoulder. Probably when that brownie tripped him on the staircase, the little bastard. Gritting his teeth, he rolls his shoulder slowly, flexing. Something snaps faintly in his shoulder, and the pain eases a little.

He continues through the market, the noise and bustle helping to keep him on his feet; he’s so tired he feels like he could lay down in a haycart and sleep for three days. Actually, there is a haycart right over there, and the straw certainly does look good and soft….

“Hello, Merlin!”

“Hey, Gwen,” he greets, managing a smile as she comes up beside him. “New dress? I like the stitching. Do it yourself?”

She beams, smoothing a hand over her stays, which she had embroidered with pale green vines, fronds, and leaves to match the darker, richer green of her kirtle. “It is, and I did, thank you. What are you up to today? And what on earth does Arthur want with…tallow, linen, catgut, sweetmeats, and a bobbin of silk thread?” she asks with a wondering laugh, looking into his carrying basket.

“It’s not for His Pratliness. I’m Gaius’s dogsbody today. These are his. Well, most of them, anyways.” He takes a slice of candied lemon from the bag of sweetmeats and pops it in his mouth. “Want one?”

“Ooh, please.” Gwen takes piece of spiced almond, then makes a face, picking up a sealed bottle of greenish…something, with more somethings floating in it. “What…is this?”

“I have no idea. I tell the apothecarist that it’s for Gaius, and he gives me this. I do not know, and I do not want to know,” he replies.

She makes a face and sets it back in the basket, taking another piece of the sweetmeats from the pouch, falling into step beside him. As he makes his way down to Hilda’s shop—she only charges him half for a jar of blackberry preserves and gives him a baked apple whenever she makes them—Gwen touches his forearm; he barely stifles a wince at the dull ache. “What did you do here?” she asks, and he looks down. A yellow-green bruise edges out from under his sleeve.

Merlin has to think on it a moment. “Javelin training, I think? Arthur made me hold the shield again.” Of course, he did happen to ‘trip’ on the rug in Arthur’s chambers and spill wine all over the prince’s desk that night, so he thinks they’re even.

She snorts and pats his wrist gently. “Well, he ought to let you get some sleep. You look exhausted. When’s the last time you had some rest?”

“Rest? What is this _rest_ you speak of?” he retorts, grinning back at her.

_“Merlin.”_

“Oh, alright. Stop fretting, you sound like Gaius.”

Rolling her eyes, she digs an elbow into his ribs and takes another piece from the bag of sweetmeats. She’s quiet as he bargains with Hilda for preserves, though it isn’t exactly _bargaining_ , mostly just him trying to pay her for it whilst she insists he doesn’t have to. He finally manages to give her the coin, but she still gives him a small container of her attempt to make apple jelly, calling it a free sample.

“How is Arthur?” Gwen asks, her voice softer.

“He’s…alright. A bit sad, but I think he’s more upset about hurting your feelings,” he says after a moment.

She gives a soft laugh, shaking her head once. “You know, I think I feel the same. I…I really thought we…. Oh, well, I suppose I should be happy that we came to our senses before we did each other real harm.” She looks down and smooths a hand over the embroidery on her stays again. “He gave me the material for this, you know. A gesture of goodwill.”

Merlin shifts the basket back so he can put his arm around Gwen’s shoulders, squeezing her gently to his side. “He’s still very fond of you, Gwen, and I’m sure he’s happy you’re happy. Is Lancelot still sending you letters?”

A smile comes to her lips. “Yes, which you very well know, page boy, as you are the one who delivers them to me. Are you ever going to tell me how you keep getting letters from him when he isn’t in Camelot?”

He only grins and shrugs a shoulder in return. He isn’t going to tell her because that would require him explaining what a journey book is, why he has a magical book, where he got it from to begin with, and how he managed to give one to Lancelot when they’ve only seen each other once, briefly, since his banishment from Camelot. In truth, it hadn’t been all that difficult. He’s gotten quite skilled in teleporting of small objects—it’s how he sends coin to his mother in Ealdor. Of course, _sending_ them isn’t exactly difficult; getting them _back_ is the problem, but that’s neither here nor there. All he’d needed to do was scry Lancelot's location and transport the journey book to him with a note explaining its use. He has its twin, and whatever is written in one appears in the other, and then he uses a spell of transcribing to copy Lancelot’s words onto loose pages to be given to Gwen.

“Alright. Keep your secrets,” she says, prodding his ribs again; he stifles a wince as she unknowingly pokes one of his other bruises. No javelin practice there, just that damn brownie. How something so small had managed to throw an iron pot at him, he’ll never know. “Well, I have to get back, but you should come over for supper again, and we can talk about all the nonsense you and Arthur have been up to, alright?”

“That sounds lovely, Gwen. I will.” He fishes in the basket and comes up with the small jar Hilda gave him. “Apple jelly?”

She laughs as she takes it, slipping the jar into one of the deep pockets of her kirtle. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Dinner,” he calls back, watching her until the market crowd obscures her from sight.

Once she’s gone, Merlin looks back down into his carrying basket, mentally reciting the list Gaius had given him, hoping he’s not forgotten anything important. He doesn’t think so. It _looks_ like everything. Though maybe he should stop back at the apothecary on his way back, get some comfrey so he can fix himself a poultice for his bruises. Gaius has scolded him for using up too much of his stores. He’s definitely going to need something for his back before he’s stuck hauling the game bag on yet another pointless hunt. He still doesn’t understand Arthur’s preoccupation with blood sports. Maybe he ought to chase Prince Prat around with a crossbow for a while, see how much _he_ enjoys it—

A hand grips his elbow tight.

Merlin startles, jerking around to stare at the owner of the hand, a young man near his own age, though not much of his face can be seen beneath the deep hood of his cloak. “What—?”

“Son of Balinor,” the stranger murmurs.

He gapes, eyes widening. “How did…?”

The young man breathes a sigh, grip loosening. “I’ve been looking for you. I am very happy to see you in good health, considering where we are.”

He finally remembers how to close his mouth and also becomes very much aware of the fact that they are standing in the middle of a crowded market street in broad daylight. Recalling the trick Leon had shown him, he twists his arm around to grab the stranger’s wrist instead, dragging him away from the stalls and into the narrow, crooked alley between two buildings; the young man goes with him easily. “Who are you?” Merlin hisses, pushing him back into the wall. “How do you know Balinor?”

“Balinor is my uncle, and I am a dragonlord, same as you, cousin," the stranger replies, flashing white teeth in a grin. "Now, tell me, what does one have to do to get a bath around here?”


	3. Questions and Answers

“How?” Merlin leans his back against the door and stares at the young man curiously looking about his small room. “Fa—Balinor said that he was the last. He told _me_ I was the last. So how are you—?”

“Because he thought he was. Cousin, I…would you tell me your name?”

Merlin frowns, then realises that in his haste to drag this stranger—this so-called cousin of his—out of the market and back to the privacy of the physician’s chamber, he had indeed neglected to give his name. Hadn’t asked for his, either. “Merlin. I’m Merlin. And you?”

He gives a little bow from the waist, smiling. “Mozfel Ambrosius. Do you mind if I…?” he asks with a gesture towards the only chair; Merlin nods. Sitting down, he brings his left leg up to rest on his right knee, unlacing his boots. “Now, I am more than happy to provide answers. Which order would you like them in?”

“Why did my f—Balinor believe he was the last dragonlord?”

He works one boot off. “You may call him your father, Merlin, for that is what he is,” he says softly, then huffs, poking a finger through a hole worn into the heel of his boot. “It was Uncle who helped us escape this place when the Purge began, and when we left, he stayed behind, to help the others. When we left, we told no-one else our heading and left no way to contact each other. That way, if any of us were caught and put to question, we couldn’t give away anyone else. So as far as he knew, he was the last. That was the gamble. Where was he? Surely he did not stay here?”

Merlin swallows hard, still trying to make sense of this new version of his world. “No. No, he didn’t. He had a brother, then?”

“Brother?” He frowns, but then the expression smooths out again. “Ah, I see. No, not exactly. I call him my uncle, but in truth, Balinor is my cousin as well. My father is Balinor’s uncle. Your grandfather’s brother. You and I are first cousins in a sense, simply with another generation between us. Our family lines are…quite entangled. It is easier to simplify things. If they are of age with you, they’re a cousin. If they’re older, they are an aunt or uncle.” Mozfel pries off his other boot and stretches his legs out with a groan.

“You’re hardly older than me,” he says, wondering. Father had grey in his hair, his beard, cares worn around his eyes and mouth.

“Mother is much younger than Father, and I was born late to them. Do you know a decent cobbler?” He holds up his other boot, the leather worn and scratched, and jabs his thumb through another hole, this one in the toe. “I’ve walked these apart.”

“I-I do. How did you find me? How did you know about me when my father didn’t?” Merlin’s beginning to feel a bit foolish, standing there against the door. He moves over and sits down on the edge of his bed, studying his…cousin. Mozfel’s taken off his cloak, so he can look at him clearly now. Perhaps it is only his imagination, his own hopeful wanting, but there is something familiar in the bones of his face, the shape of his mouth.

Mozfel unfastens the small buckles of his jacket and pulls back the hem, reaching down to untie a cord at his belt. It’s looped around the neck of a small glass bottle which appears to be full of…light. Soft, silvery-white light, dimmer in the sun, which ripples and flickers and shifts through brief hues of colour. “This is how I found you,” he answers with a smile.

“What is that?”

“Not ‘what.’ Who.” Mozfel leans forward and dangles the bottle closer. “That is a wisp, cousin. A kind of sprite. They’ve a special gift of finding, and I made a bargain with this one to find you.”

Merlin opens his mouth to ask, but a sweet, clear warbling noise sounds from the bottle, its light becoming purple, then green and blue. “What’s…?”

“They’re speaking to me. Reminding me that you are found and our bargain is fulfilled,” Mozfel replies, then addresses the wisp. “Yes, I _know_ , you little glow-bug. I will let you out when we are not _sitting in the castle,_ now calm yourself before I shake you silly.”

The glow turns red and the next whistle is rather shrill.

“Oh, you—!” Mozfel shoves the bottle into the pocket of his coat, shaking his head. “Such language.”

Merlin finds himself grinning a little. “You understand that?”

“After hearing nothing else for three months, yes. As to your questions…. We weren’t certain whether or not Uncle lived. You see, when a dragonlord dies…we feel it. And there were a great many of us dying in those days.” Mozfel presses a hand to his breastbone, jaw clenching a moment; Merlin remembers that feeling of tightness in his chest, as if a great steel hand had reached in and closed about his heart and lungs as if to squeeze the life from him. He had thought it was only his own pain. “As to how I found you…that is in part my father’s doing. He kept several of Uncle’s possessions. When we felt the passing, Father used those belongings to scry for him, and we were shown his grave. There is a spell of finding which can be used to locate family. On hope, Father cast it, and…we were shown you. I chose to find you.”

Merlin scrubs his hands together, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “You’ve said ‘we.’ Who else? Why’d you come alone?”

“I am the third and youngest son. My brothers are both wed. One has two children, the other has one soon to be born. Or…. What is the month now?” Mozfel muses quietly, more to himself than asking Merlin proper, and then he smiles a little. “Ah, yes. I am an uncle thrice over. And besides us there is our mother and father, both still living. So, you see, I have no wife to leave heartbroken, no children to leave fatherless. If I anything was to happen to me…I do not doubt my family would grieve, but still, there is less to lose, and…. Are you well, cousin?”

Merlin presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until white spots burst behind his lids, dragging in shaking breaths which he knows are coming too quick and too shallow. He has a _family_. The idea is so foreign, and yet there is a hope there, something bright and welcoming, delicate and tender, heart thudding dully in his ears. He isn’t the last. He isn’t alone.

The bed creaks slightly, and then heavy, warm cloth is folded around him, an arm around his shoulders. “Forgive me,” Mozfel murmurs. “I did not mean to upset you.”

“I-I’m not—not upset,” he gasps out. When did he begin crying? “It’s—it’s—”

“Shh, shh. Easy.” Mozfel pulls him closer, reaching over to grasp the edge of his cloak—that is what is around Merlin’s shoulders, his cloak—and pull it tighter around him. It smells like wool, leather, damp earth and Mozfel himself, something smoky and reptilian and familiar. He’s known this man for no more than a few hours, yet he hunches over and leans his head against Mozfel’s shoulder, breathing in that so-familiar scent as he weeps out relief and sorrow in turn.

When the torrent finally recedes to a trickle, Mozfel uses the edge of the cloak to dry his face. “There, now. Better?” he asks softly.

Chagrined, Merlin bobs his head, clearing his throat before attempting to speak again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, none of that. There’s no shame to be found in it.” Mozfel rubs a hand over his back, his voice softening. “You thought yourself alone, didn’t you? You aren’t, and you shan’t ever be. We’ll not leave you. Now, let us stop speaking of myself for now. We’ll have time enough later. Here.” He shifts forward and grabs the strap of his bag to pull it to his lap. Peering through the contents for a moment, he takes out a bundle of oilcloth; it is wrapped around a wood box, well-made. “These are yours, cousin,” he says, setting it in Merlin’s lap; at Merlin’s bemused look, Mozfel smiles. “Uncle’s things, the ones Father kept. They’re yours now.”

Swallowing hard, he flicks open the small latches, lifts the lid. Inside are a few different items, peculiar things at first glance—a broken fang the length of a man’s finger, three glittering blue fingernail-sized scales, a handful of peculiar gold and silver coins, a length of braided coppery hair tied with ribbons, a string of coloured glass beads, a band of silver worked into the likeness of a coiled dragon, and a silver ring. Merlin picks it up. It’s a signet ring, engraved with a triskele formed of three snarling dragon heads in exacting detail, right down to their sharp-fanged mouths and their patterned scales.

“The Ambrosius crest,” Mozfel murmurs.

Merlin sets the ring back in the box and closes the lid, forcing a deep, trembling breath and then letting it back out again slowly. “I can’t wear it here.”

“I know that. But you should have it anyways. And this.” Mozfel taps his knuckle on the lid of the box. “Uncle made this himself. He’s always had a way with wood. Made that, too,” he adds with a nod towards the longbow he had propped beside the bed when he removed his cloak. “I hope you’re a good archer. I couldn’t feather the broad side of a barn from ten paces.”

It brings a laugh from him, unexpected and sudden. “I am, actually,” he says. He’s never told Arthur—a point of pride, really, because if the prat wants to know, then he could try _asking_ —but he had learnt to use a bow as a child in Ealdor. There are still people of the hill living in the forests there; they are quite skilled archers, his old neighbours.

“Good. Good.”

A knock on the door makes both of them startle—though when Mozfel startles, he lurches to his feet and pulls a blade from his belt, steel flashing. Merlin hastily grabs his wrist, holding him still. “Merlin?” Gaius calls through the door. “I hope you are not sleeping. Arthur is looking for you.”

“I—yes, alright, thank you. I left your things on the table.”

“Good lad.” There’s a soft, fading shuffle as he moves away from the door.

Once he’s gone, Mozfel pulls his wrist from Merlin’s grasp. “Who was that?” he asks, voice lowered to a hiss.

Merlin gets up as well, though he kneels down and reaches beneath his bed to find the edge of the loose floorboard he’d prised up months ago. “Gaius. He’s the court physician. These are his chambers, I’m his ward.” It takes a bit of shifting, but he manages to wedge the box into the space beside his grimoire well enough he can put the floorboard back down.

“I see.” Mozfel slides the dagger back into the sheath on his belt. “And who is Arthur and why is he looking for you?”

“Oh.” He sits up, looking over at his cousin. “Well, uhm…Arthur is…I’m his servant.”

“Servant?” Mozfel stares for a moment, a small furrow between his brows, but then his confusion morphs into a mix of outrage and shock and disbelief. “Do not say you mean Prince Arthur. Do not say you serve Arthur _fucking_ Pendragon.”

Merlin winces.

Mozfel closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “I should’ve let my brothers drown me when I was eight.”


	4. One Thread At A Time

“So…allow me to make certain my understanding of this.” Mozfel rubs his fingertips against his brow, eyes closed to the dull ache building there. He needs spirits for this. Strong spirits. “For the past two years now, you have been living in Camelot as both physician’s apprentice and personal manservant to that…”

“Please don’t,” Merlin implores.

“That Pendragon boy,” he corrects, which is very generous of him, considering what other names he’d been thinking of. “And aside from being his servant, you are also acting as his…what? Personal bodyguard against magic? And you are doing this, all of this, on your own, under the nose of a whoreson of a king who is known amongst sorcerers as the Bloody Tyrant, who would have you strung up the instant he knew anything about it, and your only ally in this is a single old man who does little more than give you a pat on the head when things go awry.”

“Gaius doesn’t—”

Mozfel holds up a hand. “Let me finish. And you are doing all of this on the word of a dragon who has been in isolated darkness for two-and-twenty years, even though it seems to me every word he speaks seems to bring about nothing but more ruin, turning you against what could be potential allies and attempting to convince you that murdering a _child_ is not only reasonable but your only course of action, not to mention coercing you into freeing him and then laying waste to the very city he charged you to protect. Tell me, have I missed anything?”

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it again, and then shakes his head.

Groaning, Mozfel scrubs both hands over his face, mumbling, “Oh, Mother give me strength.” He had been fearful of what state he would find his cousin in, living in this accursed kingdom, but this is so much worse than anything he could’ve imagined. Goddess, what he wouldn’t give for Mother and Father to be here now; they might have an idea of what to do with this magnificent tangle that’s been laid before him. Well, he can imagine what Mother would tell him, though. _You cannot pull apart a knot all at once, child. It requires patience. One thread at a time._ Alright, then. “Why in the name of the gods would you listen to a prophecy?” One thread at a time.

Merlin gives him a puzzled look, sitting on his little bed with knees pulled up to his chest, arms around his shins. It makes him look so pitifully young; Mozfel has an aching desire to take Andléan and make someone bleed, putting so much off on him. “Why wouldn’t I? I mean, isn’t it my destiny?”

“Desti—? Dagda Mor, did no one ever tell you that destiny and prophecy are not the same?”

Merlin blinks. “They aren’t?”

He should’ve chosen a different thread. “Oh, _fuck.”_ Mozfel presses his brow to the chairback and folds both arms around his head for a moment. Breathe. “No, cousin, they are not. No dragonlord worth his scale would listen to a prophecy because prophecy is utter rubbish.”

“The Druids say—”

“The Druids spend a little too much time smoking herbs and eating mushrooms,” he snaps, then inhales deep. They will get nowhere like this. “Forgive me. What do the Druids say?”

Picking at a frayed spot in his trouser leg—he needs new clothes—Merlin says in a smaller voice, “The Druids call me Emrys. They say Arthur is the Once and Future King, and that we’re supposed to unite Albion and bring about a Golden Age. That’s what Kilgharrah tells me, too, and Gaius. Is that not true, then?”

“No, I imagine it is. That is probably the warp thread they are stringing their prophecies from,” he agrees, rubbing his temples; when he sees Merlin looking at him in confusion, he sighs. It seems he’ll have to start over. He’d always thought he’d be a father before he gave lessons like this. “Alright, let me put it this way. Have you ever seen a loom?”

Though, he will admit, Merlin does look rather endearing when baffled. “Yes?”

“Good. Now, imagine that the loom is… Actually, here. Let me show you,” he says, rising. Hura is better at conjuring illusions than he, but he can hold his own well enough. Stepping around the end of the bed to face the open part of the room, Mozfel casts an illusion of a loom, one holding an incomplete tapestry, though what is already complete trails off into eternity, colours and patterns ever shifting. “There. The loom is, well, everything. Each of us are a thread, and every choice we make, every person we interact with, every outcome we influence, that is how the tapestry is woven. Now some things, some events, cannot be changed, cannot be cut from the loom without it all unravelling. These are warp threads,” he explains, tracing a finger over the unwoven threads, which he had conjured undyed, the natural off-white colour of raw linen. “Do you see?”

Merlin’s gotten up from the bed and approached the illusion, staring at it with wide eyes. “I do, but what’s—?”

Mozfel holds up a finger. “Hold on. I’m getting there. Now all of this…is destiny, yes? No matter what happens to any of us, the loom never stops weaving. Prophecy is…for lack of better term, prophecy is guessing. Guessing which threads will be woven where, what pattern they will form. Now, Albion and the Golden age, Emrys and the Once and Future King, these are warp threads. You and—” Mozfel inhales deeply. “—the Pendragon boy, are already woven into them. But all that prophecy nonsense, that is them trying to guess how the weave will come through, what pattern the threads will form. Maybe they’ll get some things correct, but…if I say the sun will rise in the east tomorrow, have I uttered a prophecy? Or have I guessed that it will because of every dawn that has come before? Such is the way of prophecy, which is why we hold no stock with it.”

As he lets go the illusion, letting the loom dissolve and fade into nothingness, Merlin stares at the place it had been, arms around himself. “Why do so many others place stock in prophecy, then? Why did Kilgharrah tell it to me?” he asks, and oh, he sounds so young.

“Well, for one, dragons have the rare gift of being able to look upon the tapestry of life. Dragonlords, too. As far as I know, there are no others who can. It gives us a certain…perspective. And as for the old one….” Mozfel retakes his seat on the stool, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It is presumptive to call him _mad_ , but do you truly believe that anyone who has sat alone in the darkness for a score of years would be entirely _sane?_ Dragons are durable, of a certainty, but we are not invincible, and we are not immune to the fickleness of time. Even our kind may begin to lose themselves with age.”

Merlin is quiet for a long time, biting at his bottom lip and pacing in what little room there is in the chamber. “I…I want to believe you, really, I do, but…I need to think on this for a while,” he says at last.

He hates the uncertainty in his cousin’s voice, as if he believes Mozfel will disavow him should he disagree. He wonders how many have done such a thing before. Rising to his feet once more, he moves to put an arm around Merlin’s back, hugging him to his side. Merlin is some inches taller than him, so he cannot envelop him in an embrace like Father used to do to him, but he does his best, leaning his head against Merlin’s shoulder. “Think on it as much as you need, cousin. We’ve time. I cannot do anything yet, not until I find more appropriate lodgings for one, and I’ll need suitable attire before I—”

“Do? What do you mean? What are you going to do?” Merlin asks, looking down at him in bafflement.

“Well, I had come here to take you away from this place, bring you home to us, but I can already tell that is a mission in futility,” he replies with a smile, giving Merlin a light, playful shake. “If you will not go, then I will stay, and I will help you. Of course, I doubt I can name myself an Ambrosius in _this_ court, but I can call myself by Mother’s maiden name, I suppose.”

“You’re staying?” There is a look of almost painful hope on Merlin’s face.

“Of course, I am. We do not abandon family. First things first. I need to get to the north wing of the castle.”

Merlin frowns. “The north wing? Nobody ever goes to the north wing. It’s empty.”

“Wonderful, it’ll be all the easier, then.” Crossing the chamber, he steps up onto the table and pushes open the window, leaning out to look. Perfect. Both hands braced on the sill, he lifts himself up to the window, twisting around to sit in the window, leaning halfway out.

“What are you _doing?”_

“Going to the north wing,” Mozfel replies. “Across the roof is the best way.” In all truth, as late as it is, they probably could simply walk there through the castle, but he has no desire to see the old physician at the moment. He still would like to bleed someone for all that’s been done to Merlin.

“But—”

“Come on, cousin.” He pulls himself up to standing, bracing one foot on the side of the window to push himself up. Most parts of the outer walls are smooth stone, with few places to grip, but there are some places with decorative ledges and statues, and that is almost as easy as climbing a tree. The roofs themselves are all sharply sloped, too steep to be walked on, but the edge of the rooftops, a broad lip of stone to keep the rain from running directly down the walls and windows, is wide enough, provided one has good balance.

“This seems a bit dangerous,” Merlin calls, uncertainty lacing his tone as he starts climbing out of the window.

Mozfel crouches on the balls of his feet, peering over at him. “Only if you fall off. Grab there, brace your feet there, and pull. I’ll help you up.”

Once they’re both up on the roof, Mozfel leads the way to the north wing, humming as he steps over the small breaks in the stone, climbing over statues and buttresses, occasionally pausing to make sure his cousin is keeping up.

“You remember your way around well enough,” Merlin observes, edging along behind him. “How old were you when…?”

“When we escaped? Six. My brothers used to carry me up here. Alfrin always said he’d leave me on that tower there, feed me to crows,” he replies, pointing to the peak of the northernmost tower; in the darkness, the pennant flapping from its post looks blood-dark. He peers over the edge of the roof, counting the windows along the wall they stand above. “We’re here.”

“Where’s here? What are we looking for?”

“You’ll see. Wait for my word.” He doesn’t imagine the windows here would be locked, high up as they are. Grasping the edge of the roof, he lowers himself down carefully, feeling for the edge of the sill with his toes, then lets his upper body down once he finds it. When he pushes at the window it doesn’t shift. Damn. Well, at least Merlin said the north wing was always empty. He pulls Andléan from his belt and reverses his grip, using the hilt to smash in a pane, knocking aside the glass until he can fit his hand through clean, groping for the latch.

“Mozfel!” Merlin hisses above him.

“What? I’m opening the window. I can fix it.”

“If you can fix it with magic, why didn’t you just unlock it with magic?”

He finds the latch and lifts it, withdrawing his arm. “Good point. Well, I’m already done, so come on.” He pushes open the window and slides in, dropping to the floor with a crunch of broken glass. After a moment of shuffling and quiet cursing, he sees Merlin’s long legs dangling in view, and reaches out to grab his trousers, pulling his legs in.

“Whoa,” Merlin says softly once he’s climbed down, looking around the ruined chamber, haphazardly stripped down to its bones: a bedframe with no mattress or hangings, an empty wardrobe with one of its doors smashed in, a gutted desk tipped on its side, the ragged corner of a tapestry clinging to only one of its hooks. “I’ve never been in here before. What happened?”

“Uther did. These were our family’s apartments.” He crosses the ruined chamber, stepping over the broken remnants of a chair to the wall with the torn tapestry. When it’d been whole, it’d depicted the ascension of the dragonlords in Alba, an aeon ago when the world was covered in ice. Mozfel reaches up and places his fingertip on the wall, drawing down the seam between two stones. _“Onhlídan.”_ With a grinding of stone and a minor eruption of dust, the stones of the wall fold back, opening into a deep, stale darkness. _“Léoht.”_ A ball of golden sorcerer’s flame appears in the air above his hand, casting its light into the dark opening.

“Goddess _mercy,”_ Merlin exclaims softly behind him.

Mozfel grins at the floored expression on his cousin’s face, goggling at the wealth inside the hidden aperture—gold, silver, gems of all colour and size, to say nothing of the jewelry he knows is in the small boxes arrayed on the narrow shelves.

“What?” he teases, nudging Merlin with an elbow. “Did you think all that jabber about dragons loving treasure didn’t include us?”


	5. Family Ties

Arthur drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring at the empty tabletop in front of him. Which isn’t supposed to be empty, because he is supposed to have his breakfast by now, and he would, if not for the fact he has the most useless manservant in the history of all five bloody kingdoms. One of these days, God help him, he is going to have Merlin strung up by those ridiculous ears and—

The door swings open; Merlin backs into the chamber, using one elbow to keep the door open as he shuffles in, holding the tray safely out of the way.

“Well, well, glad to see you’re still alive. I was beginning to wonder,” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair. “Is any of that even still warm?”

“Of course, it is, you prat, stop whining.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something—protest that he is not whining, princes do not whine; scold Merlin yet again for calling him a prat, which he is _not allowed_ to do; ask what on earth could’ve taken so long, the distance from the kitchens to his chambers has not changed—but Merlin turns around, coming to set the tray on the table. Arthur closes his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Merlin.”

“Hm?”

He lifts a hand, crooking one finger in a come-hither gesture; looking bemused, Merlin leans in. Arthur hooks his finger in the folds of the idiot’s silly little scarf. “What is this?”

“My scarf?”

“Don’t be flip, you idiot. I know _what_ it is.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

He’s asking because most of Merlin’s neckerchiefs might as well be washrags, faded and frayed, yet this one is made of fine stuff, cambric from the feel, dyed a deep, _expensive_ hue of midnight blue. And more than that, there’s thread-of-silver embroidered in the corners. Arthur narrows his eyes further, wondering if maybe he ought to just strangle Merlin with it instead. “Where did you _get_ it?”

Merlin flashes a bright grin. “It was a gift.”

“A gift,” Arthur repeats flatly. He drops his hand. “From whom?”

“Uh, nobody you know. Not yet, anyways. Wants to meet you, though.”

That…is not an answer. Matter of fact, he actually has more questions now. Arthur bites his tongue on them, however, sitting back in his chair and watching Merlin putter about. His breakfast is in fact still warm, but he suddenly finds he lacks an appetite. Two _years_ he’s been trying to convince Merlin to get himself proper attire to wear in court, something appropriate for a royal servant to wear, and some stranger has him in a new neckerchief and— “Are those new boots?”

“Huh?” Merlin looks down as if he’s somehow forgotten what he’s put on his own feet. “Oh, yeah, they are.”

Un-fucking-believable. “Well, good, you’ll have ample chance to break them in. I need my armour mended and polished, my clothes laundered. I’ll be going on a hunt later, so see to our provisions, the horses and the dogs, and bring up my crossbow from the armoury. And before you do that, lay out my clothes, I’m attending court with my father this morning.”

Merlin gapes at him, mingled indignation and outrage on his idiotic face. “You didn’t tell me you were—”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, now _go,”_ he snaps, overriding Merlin’s words.

For a moment, Merlin just stands and glares at him, but then he stomps over to the wardrobe, yanks it open, and begins throwing clothes in the direction of the bed.

Arthur pushes back from the table and stands, yanking off his nightshirt, throwing it at Merlin’s head as he picks up his tunic. He thinks he can hear Merlin’s teeth grinding. Contrary to some people’s opinions, he actually _can_ dress himself and does so, putting on his tunic.

Behind him, the wardrobe doors slam shut again. “Anything else, _sire?”_ Merlin bites out. It would figure he addresses Arthur by proper title _now._

Arthur looks back at his breakfast, now certainly cold. “Give that to the dogs.” He busies himself with straightening the lay of his coat as the tray rattles loudly, the door opening and slamming shut. Fixing his dagger to his belt, he rakes his fingers cursorily through his hair and leaves his chambers.

In all truth, he didn’t have to sit court with his father today. Usually, the King only sees to the petitions and grievance of the Great Houses, leaving the lesser lords and smallfolk to Arthur’s purview. Still, it’s the one place he knows Merlin shan’t be because Arthur has expressly forbidden him from _ever_ attending court when Father is present; if Merlin ever started in with his facetiousness in Father’s presence, he wouldn’t see the stocks, he’d see a whipping post.

However, it takes less than a quarter hour for him to remember why he never sits in court with the King. Nobles are so…very… _boring._ So many of their grievances and petitions are just petty disputes with neighbours, squabbling over insignificant things, too well-mannered to just have it out with fisticuffs like normal people. At least the smallfolk are more _varied_ with their problems. He can’t remember the last time a noble ever came to him to complain that a woodsman’s pet pig ate a crop of prize-winning carrots, or to argue the validity of a contract made over bone dice and copious amounts of ale.

Arthur tries not to slouch in his chair overmuch, watching the brightly-coloured courtiers swan about, listening to snatches of conversation as they drift past him, and hopes he doesn’t look as bored as he feels—

What is Merlin doing here?

He barely curbs the impulse to leap from his chair, though he does rise with due haste. What does he have to do to make this fool listen to him? Gods, he has to get out of here before—oh, _no._

Merlin is already speaking to a young nobleman, murmuring in low voices, and that alone is what keeps Arthur from snatching the idiot by the scruff of the neck and dragging him out. “I beg your pardon, my lord, my servant seems to have lost his way,” he grits through his teeth. “Did you not find the duties I listed for you this morning _adequate,_ Merlin? I’m certain I could find more.”

Proving that he is, in fact, an idiot, Merlin opens his mouth to argue—Arthur knows he means to argue just from the set of his shoulders—but the nobleman lays a hand on Merlin’s arm, and Merlin actually _holds his tongue_. Astounded, Arthur looks at the courtier, wondering who he is to work such a miracle, and is surprised to receive a carefully blank and cool gaze in return.

“My duties are what bring me here, _sire,”_ Merlin retorts, his voice polite only on the surface. “We had plans, but I’ll not be able to attend now.”

Plans. Merlin had made _plans_ with someone.

Over the faint ringing in his ears, Arthur hears Merlin grumbling, “Besides, I wanted to introduce you. Arthur, this is my cousin Mozfel.”

“Your what?” he says before he can quite stop himself.

“Cousin,” the courtier repeats, his voice just as cool as his expression. “Mozfel of Berwick, your highness. Kin to Merlin’s father.”

Arthur blinks. He thought Merlin didn’t know who his father was, or at least that had certainly been the implication the last time they spoke of it. Apparently, sometime between then and now, Merlin must have learnt of his parentage, and apparently, his father is a noble. Merlin is kin to _nobility._ “Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot,” he replies on reflex, finally recalling his manners. “Well, it’s a pleasure to have met you, Mozfel of Berwick, but Merlin still has duties to attend to—”

“I’m going, I’m _going,”_ Merlin hisses in an undertone, but his tone gentles as he addresses his cousin. “I’ll see you for supper, Mozfel.”

Mozfel dips his chin in a small nod, and Merlin smiles before he turns and leaves the hall, giving Arthur a pointed glance as if to say, _there, see, I’m leaving._

Once he’s gone, Arthur looks Mozfel over, properly, for the first time, curious about this kinsman. He’s some inches shorter than Arthur, dressed in deep blue chased with silver—the same as Merlin’s neckerchief, he realises—and there is something in his face that resembles Merlin, there in the shape and angle of his bones. Like most of the other noblemen in the hall, he wears a dagger at his belt, as only the royal family and the guard may have swords in the citadel; unlike other noblemen’s weapons, however, his actually appears meant for use, not ornamentation. The leather of the belt and scabbard are worn smooth and shiny from use, the hilt steel and bone bound in leather, no gilding or gemstones.

“Berwick, you say? I’ve not heard of it before,” he says at last, not certain of what else to say. This is all entirely too strange for him.

“I don’t imagine you would have. We’ve…fallen quite a way over the years,” Mozfel answers; something must show on Arthur’s face because a corner of Mozfel’s mouth lifts in an expression that isn’t exactly pleasant. “Have no worry for it. The wheel of fortune never stops turning, your highness, and we are not the first family to fall beneath its spokes.” The not-smile grows, flashing a glimpse of teeth. “Nor will we be the last.”

With that, Mozfel dips his chin in that same small nod and walks away, disappearing amidst the rest of the courtiers, leaving Arthur standing and staring after him.

That is…vaguely disturbing.


	6. Silk, Stairs, Steel

“Gwen!”

She looks up at the sound of her name just as a set of long, wiry arms wrap around her and hoist her up in an embrace. “Oh! Merlin!” she squeaks, laughing as he lifts her clean from the ground with enthusiasm before setting her back down again. “You know you shouldn’t do that where everyone can see,” she laughs, knowing he doesn’t care a whit for propriety and will need telling again another time. She doesn’t much mind, either; she doesn’t get hugs like that from anyone except Father and Elyan.

Merlin grins broadly, reaching down to grab the basket of washing she’d been leaning over to pick up when he’d yanked her off her feet. “Yeah, I know, but listen, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Alright. Come on, walk with me,” she replies. There’s no point in trying to take the basket back from him; he won’t give it up now that he’s got it.

As they start down the narrow stairwell which leads down to the castle washrooms, Merlin says, “Well, first, I’m sorry about missing supper with you the other night, I completely forgot, but that’s sort of what I need to tell you about anyways.”

Gwen turns her head to glance back at him—the servants’ stairwells are too narrow for them to walk side-by-side. “What’s that?”

“Well, you remember I told you about my father,” Merlin begins, and she nods, remembering their quiet conversations in Ealdor after she’d met Hunith. “The other day, when we were in the market together, I met my cousin. He’s come to Camelot looking for me since my father died, and we started talking, and then I completely forgot about dinner, but listen, he’s going to be staying here for a while, and he says he wants to meet my friends, so would you mind terribly if we came to yours tonight? We could bring something along.”

It is good and well she’s accustomed herself to how Merlin talks, though she still sometimes wonders how he manages to say all that on a single breath. “That sounds lovely,” she says after taking a moment to parse through his words. “I’ve got a stewing hen, so if you bring some vegetables, I could make stew.”

Merlin makes a delighted noise as they emerge into the laundry, the air warm and damp with steam, the scent of soap and linen.

“So, you have a cousin? That’s wonderful for you, Merlin, I’m glad you got to meet your family.” Gwen takes the basket from him at last, sorting it out for the laundresses; as much as she loves him, he has absolutely no idea how to handle a lady’s wardrobe. “I’m sorry about your father, though.”

Some of the brightness fades from him, a wistful twist to his mouth, but he still musters a smile. “I got the chance to meet him. Never thought I’d have even that,” he says at last. “I miss him. But I’m glad for having met him, even if it was just the once.”

Gwen wonders what it must be like, being absent a parent for so long, meeting them only once before they’re gone. She misses Mother and Father, she thinks she always will, at least a little, but she still has memories of them to hold onto, of Mother running a comb through her hair and teaching her embroidery patterns, of Father showing her what colour flames should be for proper heating and placing her blades out for display beside his own work.

“He acknowledged you, then?” she asks gently, holding the empty basket for him as he collects Arthur’s clothes. Depending on their stations, some men would just as soon pretend they had no children at all.

“Mm-hm. He never married, either,” Merlin adds. “He loved Mother.”

“Then he’s a rarity, and you deserve no less.” Gwen hands off the basket to him and gently rubs her hands over his, squeezing his wrists. “I’m happy for you, Merlin.”

He smiles with something like his usual cheer. “Thanks.”

As they head back up the stairs—a servant’s life is made of staircases—she lets Merlin walk ahead of her this time, and she reaches up to prod him in the back. “Also, whenever you see Lancelot again, or however it is you keep sneaking letters to him, please tell him to keep his fool self out of Camelot,” she tells him firmly, deciding a change of topic is due.

Merlin casts a backwards glance. “No idea what you mean,” he answers, but the upturn of his lips gives him away.

If she didn’t know how clumsy he is, she’d have swatted him. Even so, she settles for pinching his arm.

_“Ow,_ Gwen—!”

“I mean it. You know the King won’t imprison him if he’s caught here.” She doesn’t know what would possess the idiot to think trying to slip into Camelot after being exiled _on pain of death_ is a good idea.

“Well, it’s not like he’d just walk into the middle of the court and announce himself to Uther. He misses us. And honestly, I have done far more dangerous things than sneak a single person into the citadel and back out again.”

“I did not hear that.”

They stop at an intersection of corridors, their usual parting of ways since the royal apartments lay down one corridor and the other nobles’ quarters lay down another. Gwen had thought she would lose her position in the citadel after Morgana’s disappearance, as she cannot be a lady’s maid if there is no lady, but the Duchess Hawise had taken up residence in Camelot in spring and had been more than happy to employ her.

“Well, I can already tell that you aren’t going to listen to me no matter what I say, so please just…be careful, would you? The both of you,” she says, reaching up to flick the end of his scarf up to his nose.

Merlin grins. “No promises. So, we’ll see you for supper tonight?”

“Tonight.”

Gwen likes Mozfel within five minutes of knowing him.

He’s an interesting juxtaposition of traits; mannered as a courtier, yet no stranger to menial work. His attire looks like it might’ve once belonged to an elder brother, but his boots are new and good quality leather. His hands, when he grasps hers in greeting, are all-over rough with calluses, but his speech is neat and well-learned. He also insists that since he and Merlin brought half of supper, they should at least do half the preparation, sitting at the table and chopping the vegetables with her as Merlin cut the chicken for stewing, and he handles a kitchen knife with familiarity.

“Merlin tells me you are both a bladesmith and a lady’s maid,” he observes as she puts it all together in the pot, setting the lid on for it to stew for a while. “That’s quite an interesting overlap. Might I ask how it came about?”

“My mother was a lady’s maid in one of the Great Houses, and my father was a bladesmith. I’ve learnt from both of them.”

“Well, as our supper will be a while yet, might I ask to see your work?”

“Of course. Here, just this way.”

Father had sold most of his work in the market, namely the simple, sturdy daggers of the common man, but he did make a few finer blades to show as examples to nobles seeking to commission a personal blade. Once she’d gained skill enough to be called a journeyman, he’d displayed her blades with his.

“My father made these two, but these are mine,” Gwen says, carefully unrolling the blades out on the thick cloth they were kept wrapped in. The two swords her father had made were a matched pair, one of the blades shorter and lighter, meant to appeal to a father looking for his son’s first proper weapon. She’d made a similar matched set, only of a short sword and a dagger.

Mozfel picks up the dagger, weighing it in hand before sketching a few light forms with the blade, the steel gleaming dangerously; then, to her surprise and wonder, he reverses his grip and balances it upon its point on his finger. “Well, Guinevere, I regret to say you are never allowed to meet my father,” he says at last, setting the blade down on the thick cloth. “He would immediately claim you as a fourth child and likely disinherit me and my brothers.”

“Is your father a bladesmith as well?” she asks, intrigued as she carefully folds the blades back into their wrappings.

“Oh, yes. Once upon a time, he was called smith-lord. Made this.” He pulls his own blade from the scabbard on his belt, handing it to her.

Gwen turns it over in hand. The hilt is bound in leather and inlaid with bone coloured black by some art, the cross-guard fashioned in the likeness of a dragon with outstretched wings. There are curious, spidery letters engraved in the runnel, running up both sides. It is a beautiful weapon, expertly made, however…. “Was this a sword?” she asks. The blade is not fashioned to a regular point, but jagged and uneven as if had been snapped off rather than shaped and honed, the engraved words ending abruptly.

“It was once, yes.” Mozfel takes it back from her and carefully runs a fingertip over the broken edge; a hair-slim line of red appears. “It was broken a long time ago. Father swore he would never reforge it but keep it as it is now, as a reminder. It is called Andléan.”

“A reminder of what?” she asks softly.

He turns the blade in his hands, reflecting a slash of golden candlelight onto his face. “A betrayal from one he thought kin,” Mozfel says, just as low. But then, just as quickly as his dark melancholy comes, he shakes it away, sliding the dagger home to its scabbard. “Forgive me. This is why I’m never invited to parties, I’m dreadful company.”

Gwen reaches over to lay a hand on his arm. “I enjoy your company just fine.”

“Only because I imagine you’ve been subjected to my cousin’s company for much too long.”

“Hey!” Merlin squawks from where he’d been ladling stew into three bowls.

Mozfel grins, a sharp flash of teeth, and he steps around the table to pull out a chair for her. “And speaking of my cousin, I’m afraid that in knowing him for so short a time, I am woefully lacking in embarrassing tales to tell of him. Perhaps you will be able to make up the lack,” he says in a tone of perfect nonchalance even as Merlin stares across the table at him in a familiar kind of familial terror.

Gwen remembers that look from when Father would make mention of whatever bit of trouble Elyan had gotten into. “Well…has he ever told you how we met?”

“Traitor,” Merlin hisses.


End file.
